


Catharsis

by Ina_Unscathed



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, Forgiveness, M/M, Short, dream - Freeform, reference to Mosaic episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 08:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ina_Unscathed/pseuds/Ina_Unscathed
Summary: Eliot dreams of Quentin, the mosaic, and of forgiveness.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Catharsis

“El.”

No. _No. Nononono._

Quentin watched him patiently. Eliot could feel his eyes on him.

“Q.” Eliot returned.

No Don’t acknowledge him.

“I’m sorry, El.”

That was _worse._

Eliot looked at him. Quentin was older. Not ancient, but older. The age when he decided that red wasn’t lovely and he wanted to create organic shapes with the square mosaic tiles. When their son fell in love and got his heart broken, and Quentin had had to console him. 

The age when he had held Eliot’s head between his hands and said, “I love you, Eliot Waugh.”

“Don’t apologize,” Eliot said. He wailed it. He could feel his grief gutting him, emptying him out like a cracked cup. Every single day he got up and he tried to fill that hole, but everything just flowed right out again, leaving him empty again.

Quentin had once filled that hole.

The Japanese had a practice called kintsugi where they fixed broken pottery with gold.

Quentin had been his gold.

“Don’t apologize,” Eliot begged. “I killed you.”

Quentin shook his head. Gave him the look he’d given their son. Patient, but disbelieving.

Quentin had been a good father.

A good dad.

A good husband.

Quentin had been good.

“You didn’t kill me,” Quentin said.

Eliot wept. “Why weren’t you _faster?_ ” he demanded. “Why didn’t you just-”

“I’m sorry, El.”

STOP APOLOGIZING TO ME. Eliot was standing, fists clenched so hard that his aging fingers ached. He was old, he could feel it in his body. He had died, once, loving Quentin.

“I pushed you away,” Eliot said. “You asked me to meet you half way, you asked me and I _turned you down_.” He reached for Quentin, but he was out of reach, still watching him with too-patient eyes. “You came to me and I told you no.”

“I know you, Eliot.” Quentin was old, face creased with a lifetime of toil and sorrow. His eyes were creased, forehead worn with worry. But he had smile lines, too. When he smiled it looked like his face was made for that expression.

“I knew better than to put you on the spot,” Quentin said, voice frail with age. "I know it takes time for you to make big decisions."

“You’re in my head,” Eliot said, exhausted. “You’re in my head, and you’re saying what I want you to say.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

Eliot had sworn he saw something, when they made a solid line of white on the north side of the mosaic. Try it again, try it again, he had demanded. For an entire year he had insisted on the damn white line. How many arguments had they had, about that one damn line?

It was just the sunset, Q had said. What you saw is sunset. But no, an entire year of arguments.

Finally, Quentin had put his hands on Eliot’s face – Eliot was half-certain that Q was about to strangle him.

“I love you, Eliot Waugh,” Quentin had said. “I think you’re wrong, but you’re going to have to come to that conclusion yourself.”

Then he’d left, taken their son out into the fields.

When Q returned Eliot had color coded Pi and they started a series of color recreations of classic algorithms that lasted most of a decade.

“If I’m saying what you want to hear, it means you want to hear it. You want to forgive yourself,” Quentin said patiently. He was young, as young as the first day Eliot had met him. Young, but his eyes were still old.

“I love you, Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot breathed. A truer thing had never been said.

“I know,” Quentin said. Every age of Quentin looked out of those eyes. Young, old. “I love you, Eliot Waugh.” 

Quentin’s hands touched his face.

Eliot woke, pillow soaked through with tears.


End file.
